Streetfight on Sonam Wangdi road

Gorkha belles of mid 1950s Sitting back row left to right Man Kumari, Jamuna & Amrit sitting front row left to right Keshari (my late wife) & Bhim Kumari

By NAYAN SUBBA

It is tough to go to Darjeeling Govt. College because memories come flooding back. Recently, as I stood near its façade I was transferred back to time some fifty years ago in a fast rewind. It was a strange déjà vu like situation, I could almost hear my friends talking, laughing, joking and quickly fading away in holograms. After completing Intermediate Arts at St. Josephs College I joined Darjeeling Govt. College in 1958. It was one of the premier institutions in North Bengal with eminent educators like Dr. C.C. Dasgupta (Principal), Dr. N. N. Roy, Dr. D Bagchi, Mr.A.K.Sinha, Mr.Tulshi Apatan, Mr.Babulall Pradhan, Mr.P.K.Ghose and others.

One has to be honest about the way in which you have lived you life after all most of us live normal lives and there is nothing much to hide. We were young, full of hope and happiness and life a dream to be lived in eternal fun and frolic. Like all young boys our favourite pastime was girl watching and secretly falling in love with all the beautiful ones. Some of my beautiful contemporaries and some juniors were Janet Dunne (Miss Darjeeling, 1956 who is as beautiful as ever), Nilima Roy Choudhury, Bhanu Khati, Mandira Kushari, Man Kumari Raya, Noami Khaling in St.Joseph’s College, Sarawati Dixit, Mary Rai, Dawa Phuti, Roma Thapa, Usha Rai and Keshari Bistha in Darjeeling Govt. College, there were some other beautiful girls who better be nameless since their husbands are still alive and very conservative. Today these girls could have taken a career in modelling and easily graced the catwalk in a Haute Couture show. A good number of students were involved in scholarly pursuits who did fairly well in life. Many other hard working students became successful Doctors, Engineers, Scientists, Businessmen and Bureaucrats. Our priorities were wrong, we spent much of our time in extra curricular activities like music and sports in preference to studies.

The trouble started over the possession of a TT bat, a trivial matter, which nearly ended up in tragedy. In the petty quarrel involving both of us Nima Thendu a senior student suddenly lost his temper, let loose a string of unprintable obscenities, contemptuously spat at me and left the Hall saying that he would teach me a good lesson. The late Uday Lama (painter) the man with the Dev Anand face cut warned me not to brush shoulders with Nima Thendu who was feared by Teachers and students alike, worse no one could control him. I took it lightly and forgot about the whole incident blissfully ignorant about the coming storm.

About a week after the TT incident we had just finished our evening rehearsals for Bir Bikram Gurung’s play ‘Jeevan Paridarshan’at the Bhanu Bhakta Primary School. As we came out of its premises a group of boys suddenly came running and started to clobber me up for no reason at all. I was weaving, ducking and parrying the flurry of blows, one man armed with a three-celled torchlight swiped at me narrowly missing my temple, had it hit me I would have been a piece of statistics. Kapil Raj (violinist, vocalist and music composer) quickly snatched the torch light from the hands of the assailant. Suddenly Nima Thendu showed himself with a black wooden baton which fortunately was quickly twitched away from Nima’s hand by Rudra Gurung (later to become a renowned vocalist) . Nima looked hard at me and said “You son of a whore, its time you learnt a few lessons from me,” and came menacingly towards me to strike. My shirt was torn, I had been roughed up pretty badly, my guitar had been severely damaged and I was thoroughly shaken. I was definitely not in the mood to fight but I had to because he had called my mother a whore. It was a matter of honour.

I had boxed only as a novice in the ring or at best in the fly-weight division. Nima was known as ‘The boxer’ by his friends and he was a good one at that. He was heftier and shorter than me; I was taller and lighter than him. No referees, no judges, no time- keepers and no rules to follow, the fight was on He started with a good combination of punches and a vicious barrage of jabs. From the very beginning it was a savage affair, we were butting, shouldering, hitting below the belt, using kidney punches, making insulting remarks at each other and resorting to a series of foul tactics which would have disqualified both of us in a real bout. He had a peculiar crouching gait and shuffled sideways swaying his head. He was trying to hit me with a ‘bolo’ a swinging uppercut, which starts lower down which he executed with a hiss. He was fast and getting the better of me and scored some painful body hits, I hurled everything I could muster and hit him quite a few times on the face. As the fight progressed he started to tire and breathe heavily, he was swinging and missing and trying to catch his breath, I had more stamina because I was practicing for the District Sports meet. I was thinking of tiring him out by hitting and back peddling but he came back strongly and landed some quick jabs trying to ensnare me into one of the declivities of the wall which would have been disastrous. I retaliated with some straight shots and got out of the trap, it was fast becoming a grim affair. We exchanged some furious blows when suddenly a stunning ‘bolo’ hit me right on my chin Booom! Its hard to describe how it feels when you are hit by a well executed blow, it does not pain at first, it feels like you are floating in the air, you feel numb, it’s a trance like situation and then the excruciating pain. My knees turned jelly I was trying hard to stay on my feet when I saw Nima closing in to deliver the coup de grace. I heard whoops of encouragements from my friends; I somehow managed to cling on to my senses, which was critical at this stage. He lounged forward with a vicious right hook which I managed to dodge at the nick of time; the momentum carried him towards me when I caught him bang on the face with a straight right. I knew I had hit home when there was a sickening crunch and a searing pain on my knuckles. The impact of the blow sent him wheeling around, he lost physical co-ordination, his legs desynchronized and he was staggering to maintain his composure. When he turned around I could see a thin streak of blood streaming out of his nose. It was my turn to close in for the kill when he let out a scream of anger broke fight and ran straight into his house nearby and emerged with a gleaming Khukuri. I heard everyone shouting, “Run, run for your life or he’ll kill you.” Run I did straight into class III and came out armed with a Bruers steel chair to defend myself. In the meantime friends of Nima had disarmed him and pushed him into a corner to stop fighting with a khukri. Nima was furious, he pointed a threatening finger at me saying that this was only the preliminary round. We quietly left the place for refreshments at the Orient Restaurant, a treat given to us by Rudra Gurung for graduation from the University of Calcutta.

Darjeeling in 1958 was lots of smiles and greetings, the mountains could be seen from everywhere, people could go to the market without locking up their doors (at present the lock and key retailers are doing good business ), The Police marched for the change of guards in the beats, public toilets were clean, tap water was potable, teachers and elders were well respected. The Republic and Independence day Parades were held at the Bazaar square. Austin 40s, Studebakers, Fords, Chevrolets, Opels and Humbers were still plying on the Hill Cart road. The old colonial hang over had not quite gone, the beautiful Christmas air and New years bash were regular features. The revelry of Dussain and Tihar, the sound of madals and Damphus (folk instruments), Nepali folksongs and marigolds, Roti ping ( Ferries wheel) and Lingay pings ( giant swings) and glorious inebriations warmed the cockles of the heart. Gorgeously dressed Tibetan ladies singing in high pentatonic ( five note) scales in Losar, the Muharrum celebrations, horse racing in Lebong , football, hockey, momos and Chang were all a part of the composite culture in Darjeeling. Since Darjeeling was still the ‘The Queen of hill stations ‘one never felt better in taking a walk around the Mall which we called the ‘The Queen’s necklace’ with gusts of wind soughing silently through the tall pine trees, the sight of mountains, the nymphs and Pan softly playing his flute over the trees specially for those who were in love and wearing the rose of youth in them.

Next day when I reached College the news of the fight had spread out like wildfire, an uneasy silence prevailed in the classroom. Just before the arrival of the teacher Alec the Sports Assistant of the College came and informed me that the Principal would like to meet me and at the same time gave another petrifying news that the local Officer-in-Charge of the Police Station had summoned both of us to meet him at 3 pm next day. My hairs stood at the back of my neck when I learnt that the Police had come to know about the incident, I knew I was in real big trouble.

That evening I walked back home full of gloom and despondency, even the crimson rays of the setting sun failed to calm my flustered nerves, the wind was blowing from the contrary direction and darkness was fast approaching from behind. My mind was full of worries like I may be expelled from the college, the Police may arrest and lock me up, I may be attacked again with greater force by Nima and more than any other thing my grandmother whom I loved was very ill. I tossed and turned in bed all night, I felt like screaming, the intense human scream of helplessness.

Most of the Collegians were charming and good-natured people, a few of them were fascinating characters. Sher Bahadur Chettri my best friend was a diminutive person, loyal and a darling of a man who could deliver happiness even if one was in the depth of despair. Indra Kumar Mimani spent half his time acting important in his new role as the Vice –President of the Student’s Union. He used to talk about Gandhi, Subhas Chandra Bose, and Sardar Ballav Bhai Patel and took great pains to explain the relationship between Jawarharlal Nehru and Lady Mount batten. Raj Kumar Duggal was one of the most handsome boys in Darjeeling; he couldn’t help feeling that all the girls were in love with him. Victor Mukhia looked like a swashbuckling Hollywood hero; he was the love letter specialist. Among girls I eventually fell for Keshari Bistha whom I married. Kesh was a rare combination of beauty and talent; she was the best female singer and the TT Champion of the College. She died and left us devastated in 1974, I vowed never to remarry. There were many other charming characters in College but I have written only about those who have died and left us forever. Goodbye friends, meet you in the land of everlasting happiness.

I screwed up my courage and entered the Principal’s room. Dr.N.N.Roy the Acting Principal, Dr. Bagchi and Mr, A.K.Sinha were the members of board. The Principal spoke rather severely without shouting, “Who made you the Cultural Secretary of the Student’s Union? (obviously it was he). This is preposterous, please explain your despicable conduct!” I could hear my heart beating like a drum, I nervously tried to explain everything but the Principal did not seem to be impressed and started to express his displeasure in the strongest possible manner. Dr. Bagchi a man with a stiff upper lip sarcastically commented, “ You should have joined the Scar face gang!” There was a ripple of laughter easing the situation for a moment but the Principal continued his rigid attitude and told me that they were seriously thinking of stripping me off my post and suspending me from classes. The ground below my feet was fast slipping away. I kept on pleading my innocence when the Principal looked at me and sternly said, “ That’s enough. You may go.” I must have turned pale yellow out of fear, as I bowed to leave the Acting Principal suddenly changed his mood and said softly “ Son, you should be studying and practicing your music and not fighting in the streets.” Greatly relieved I went down the flight of stairs with a lump on my throat touched by the Principal’s kindness.

Nima had failed to turn up at the Principal’s chamber, but he was present at the Police Station just before the given time at 3 pm, he seemed slightly nervous and fidgety. The Officer-in –Charge of the Police Station was a tough looking man, he closely inspected both of us before speaking and said “ I heard that the two of you were fighting in the streets, if this is the state of Collegians what will happen to others.” He pointed towards the lockup and said “I am afraid I have no alternative but to put both of you inside the cell.” There was a sinking feeling of panic when Nima explained that we had only slapped each other once and that was all. Moreover we had patched up, what had upset him most was the way the people had made a mountain out of a molehill that had greatly saddened his heart. Both of us apologized for our misdemeanor. The O.C. appeared to be a pompous type of man who assumed great airs at times; he had the habit of tapping his cigarette on its case to squeeze in the tobacco before smoking. He inhaled deeply and said “O.K. its alright for this time, just shake hands and be friends, and look here, a slap at each others face does not produce so many bruises, Go away! before I further sadden your hearts.” We hurriedly shook hands and beat a hasty retreat.

The name of the great Gurkha Poet Agam Singh Giri means a certain respect for his literary talents. We respected him in spite of being an incorrigible boozer. He was fine man by all means he never bothered about anything. It is doubtful whether this gentle and tender man ever exchanged blows in the streetfight but he proudly used to say, showing his fist with a peculiar jig that he had smashed one into the jaw of an adversary who took flight screaming in terror. Shri Giri died in1971, the hill people have iconised him, a bust has been installed at Laden la Road in his memory. Roads, villages, schools and literary awards have been named after him.

Others had their own fancy tales to tell but one that never failed to get a good laugh was the one when Amber Gurung the famous Music Director trying to break up the fight looked like a conductor trying to conduct Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony which has churning rhythms, abrupt syncopations and rapidly alternating tempos. And of course, they would have laughed their guts out saying “Nayan ran as if his posterior had caught on fire” the main reason for standing my ground when Nima Daju came out with the Khukuri. Sometimes it’s really difficult to be a hill man.

The street fight had taken place on a municipal road now named after the brave and courageous Police Officer Sonam Wangdi who was killed during the Naxalite agitation in 1967. It is perhaps the shortest road in the whole world measuring a little above a 100 metres.

When Captain Nima Thendu died , a strong wave of emotion swept over me. We had become the best of friends in later years, he had joined the Army and I had joined the Police force. We used to meet quite often. Sometimes we shared our joys and sorrows over a few tots of mountain dew (scotch) in our favourite rendezvous binding us closer to each other. On the surface he appeared to be arrogant and haughty but below it he had a heart of gold. He was a man who approached life from a different angle but somehow I found him charming and fascinating, in other words as people say, he marched to the beat of a different drum.

There was a great big sense of melancholy during the last day of College. We bade farewell to our teachers and all of us gathered spontaneously at the College canteen for the last time. We had refreshing cups of tea, hot cross buns, aloodam, sealroti and momos refusing to accept that it was the last day. There was an air of nostalgia and endless pain in the heart .We finally departed after a lot of goodbyes and good feelings, however, it was a step towards a longer journey with lots of hopes and dreams to be fulfilled.

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